


Strikes- Big Sleep

by imperiality (orphan_account)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, But Allura makes it all okay :3, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Langst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-17 19:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13665723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/imperiality
Summary: Lance's Sad is a force with which to be reckoned. If it could, it would have made itself corporeal by now. It has the power to.Then one night, Lance listens to a song. He gets inspired, he gets smart; he has the power to overcome. He has the power to let things go.Does he start to let too many things go?Allura would say so. Yeah.





	Strikes- Big Sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clairelutra (exosolarmoon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exosolarmoon/gifts).



> Apologies for typos- I just wanted to get this out as soon as possible!
> 
> Enjoy! <3

If Lance doesn’t call it the Big Sad, he’s going to take it too seriously. If he doesn’t belittle it out, bottle it down, he’s not going to smile half as much as he does. He’s not going to breath fractionally as easily. He’s not going to find the power to rise out of bed in the morning.

He’s just not.

So that's what it is.

The Big Sad. Yeah. He’d say that’s accurate.

He himself doesn’t have the authority or time to be sad, but The Sad sure has the power to follow him where it pleases. It gives itself its own authority. It doesn’t care when he rises, when he lies. When he walks, when he wakes. It comes and goes, ebbs and flows but its painted mask is ever so slowly tying its ribbons behind Lance’s head, giving him a new lens. This mask reaches from behind the crown of his skull to the heels of his feet. It is full-body.

Lance is not his own master of the visage. _Façade_?

Each day the strings pull ever tighter. He can’t find the strength to reach his hands back, smack the ribbons away and pull it off himself.

The mask remains. It tightens. Conforms.

The Sad biggens.

 

Where did it even begin? Did he just… stumble in a pit of Sad, then realize it was stuck to his boots too late? Did he breathe some wrong air? Jeez, was it something he ate, something he did, something he said?

The mask, it says, it tells him _It’s nothing you’ve done, said, thought or had._

So what’s Lance supposed to think, now?

The mask, it hisses it whispers _It’s something you’re missing_.

Well shoot if that didn’t open the floodgates. 

Here’s something he can actually give an answer to.

Was the beginning him missing his family? Impossible. He wasn’t Big Sad at the Garrison, so that’s out the window. Checkmate. 

_Checkmate? Nothing’s been solved. You’ve just dwelt 2 more minutes in your sadness. Everyone knows you missed your family when you left. Grow up. Move on._

‘Kay then. Moving on.

Did it start when he realized his redundancy within the Voltron team? He can’t believe he’s digging up this old, beaten horse but he considers it worth giving another look. Nothing like the fresh, ripe exhuming of tired, whipped corpses. 

_It isn’t worth it. This has started long before Voltron. Long before the Garrison._

For all Lance cares, his pointlessness could have began when he wasted space for a cradle.

_That sounds more like it._

‘Kay. So.

Wasn’t the Family Thing. Isn’t the Voltron Thing.

Wow. Look at him. All these mysteries being knocked out one by one. He’s on a roll.

(He’s going to be sick if he spends any more time on this.)

If it isn’t the homeward bounds and the Voltron vision then is it his hopeless heart that began the trough?

_Getting closer._

Then it’s gotta be. He just doesn’t know where anything is. Where is his hopeless heart- he’s been looking for months, now. It’s probably back with Blue. Or something. Maybe Red singed it when he made the transition.

_Come now, silly boy. You know better than that._

It’s back with the Galra, then. Knowing their affinity for the take, take, take.

 _Now you_ know _that’s just not true. It’s like you’re not even trying._

That’s right. He’s not. Lance doesn’t want to try to guess. He doesn’t need to know the point of his downhill slope. He wants to sleep. Is that alright with him? His mask won’t loosen enough for him to get comfortable in bed, so guess not.

He’s made to keep trying.

He keeps looking.

For what? His hopeless heart? Everyone knows it’s with Allura, next question.

For his place on the team? He thought it’s been decided that it doesn’t exist. Not outside of Sharpshooter. Not outside of Loverboy. Not outside of Goofball. He’ll stay in his boxes, it’s cool. Moving on.

For his home?

It isn’t to be found.

Earth is galaxies, nebulas, lightyears away. Systems apart. This castle is temporary. Not stationary. It is liminal and shining and driving and completely without his control. 

All these things are away, far or hidden from him. He doesn’t need to find his heart to have laser-focus. He can probably snipe better without it. He doesn’t need to find home or belonging or space, much as he would like to. Maybe the constant chipping away he’s been doing will be enough to carve himself out a whole new space.

Home is where the heart is.

Lance isn’t going to give that sentence or sentiment any more weight again.

He’s not going to think of his Withouts again.

He can’t keep trying this hard.

 

Except… he does. He keeps trying. He keeps looking. He keeps fighting with and against himself and it’s exhausting and he can’t stop. 

He can’t stop looking behind him and seeing what he’s missed. By now, he must have missed at least… what. 4 birthdays? If he’s being modest. Back on Earth, he must have missed some graduations of some kind. Some award ceremony of some kind. Back on Earth, he’s gotta be missing out on all kinds of flirting opportunities. He’s gotta. (Maybe that’s the biggest Sad of all.)

Back on Earth, he missed the opportunity to become a Real Live Actual, Stick It To The Man fighter pilot. 

He missed the opportunity to say goodbye to his brother. His sisters.

He missed the chance to hear his parents’ voice one more time.

_Poor Lance. Missing his family and his mommy._

Yeah. Yeah he is. What about it. And you know what? He has no choice but to miss sleep because of it. 

Every morning he wakes up reminds him of how low he’s running on moisturizer. How low he’s running on sleep. How low he’s running on concealer.

How low he’s running on tissues.

_Hey! There’s something to be thankful for!_

Lance is supposed to be thankful for his salty tears… doing what. Cleansing his face? Cause his quickly-depleting toner doesn’t cleanse enough, already?

_No, you moron._

Ah. Right. He’s forgetting his miraculous ability to hold all his tears in before the team sees. Exactly. How could he have forgotten.

 _Now you got it_.

Woo-hoo.

Leave it to Lance to find light in even the darkest of places. You can always count on him!

He hates the way he can count on the days to spiral faster and faster and faster. Can they slow down? For one dobash? Maybe just a tick if it can be spared? 

If he can be allowed, Lance would be ever so grateful if he can have just one second to set himself down, take off his helmet, and breathe.

Or scream.

Either work for him.

Just _one second_ may he have to let all of this angsting out? One second to clear his head, make his ears ring- that would not be time ill wasted. One second, one moment, one breath, and he’ll get right back to work. He’d come right back to Earth.

_Not Earth._

Right. Right back to castleship, then. 

One tiny, beautiful moment allotted just for him, just to hold in his hands. Just so he can feel the space of Void moving around him. Just for the sake of a day being fast but a night to be slow. Just so he can hear, _feel_ himself breathe.

So he can hear himself think. (Think about all the things he’s leaving behind?)

So he can finally have the time to exhale.

 

Lance likes to call himself an active man. He’s used to hustle and bustle. He’s used to the craziness of life, picking up the slack, shouldering other people.

Never did he imagine he would have to do it on an intergalactic scale. 

The going and going of missions is what’s powering him up. The _not stopping_ of missions is what’s taking him down. 

Save the universe? The cause is too big to wrap his head around. Defeat Zarkon? Better, but no longer the focus. Not when Lotor is too much of too many things. 

Everything feels too big, or too small. Over his head or straight through his ears. He’s got enough brain power to do his mission and do his mission well but that’s _it._

_Come on, Lance. Really. Is that the best you can do. You must have more to give._

Really. He doesn’t. That’s it. That’s the end of his line.

There’s so many people to save and planets to liberate and causes to help and things to persuade be he needs it all to stop.

Just _stop_ already! Let the poor kid sleep! Let the missions just stop for a bit and let him tuck himself into bed. Let his mother’s lullabies not be interrupted by the echos of guns wizzing and magic diffusing and let silence muffle it out.

Let his pillow stop being dampened with out-pressed tears. 

The more he dwells on the past and the has-been and the Withouts, the more he seduces himself to follow them. The more his necessities shift. 

_You think you need a home._

He can change.

_You think you need a hope._

He can sleep.

_You think you need a heart._

His heart is already pouring into one person, one cause, one team, one hope but she, it, they don’t want it!

He’s wasting time on stressing that he already doesn’t have. He’s wasting tears on crying that his body cannot still hydrate. It’s futile. He’s going to start crying sand if he keeps this up much longer.

_“Keep this up much longer”? What is there left to keep? Do yourself a favor and let whatever you think you’re holding onto go. Spare yourself the delusion. There’s nothing left to keep. There’s no more “up” to have._

Oh holy crow. His Big Sad is so right. He doesn’t have to keep this nonsense crying up. Why should he let himself keep crying himself to sleep? It’s so stupid.

This is so stupid. 

Why does he have to keep looking back on all the things he’s missed when he can look forward to all the things he’ll have?

_You don’t have to. You do it to yourself._

Why does he have to think he’s missing any kind of ceremony or celebration or party. He’s going to have the most wicked party when he goes back home. And he _will_ be going home.

_How can you be so sure?_

Why does every nice thing he thinks about have to be taken by his Sad before he can even have it?

This is so stupid.

 _This? And what is “this”, precisely_?

It… it’s him.

No.

It _used_ to be him. But no more. No **more**!

No more. No more of the without. The without is so stupid, the tears are so stupid his Sad is making him stupid. 

He _is_ smarter than this. He is. He knows he needs to keep the tears in so he can sweat the water. Bleed for the cause. He knows he needs to clot the blood so he can he can save his heart. The cause is alive. He needs to keep his tears, keep his heart, keep his mind and keep his wits about him because he has no moment to lose.

_Yet all to quickly, you’ve let the moments sip away for the charm of a different grace._

No longer.

Gone is the time for the Big Sads. Now is the time for big sleep.

Big _sleep_? Absolutely not! Fat chance! No absolutely not when he’s so keyed up. Not when the sad is lurking too closely, still. Not when he’s got so much time to make up for.

Not when he still has to beat back his mood to surmount and reach his happy. No longer is the time for back. The time for Without.

Now is the time for revolution and he’s damn well deserved it. He can deserve a little private revolution every now and again. Right?

_You tell me._

He does!

He deserves to remember the times he’s been able to slink back into his room after a mission in one piece. Against impossible odds, little victories scatter and pepper over galaxies with Voltron’s promise of security. (With their kiss of comfort.) He lets himself remember the times their victories were thin, tight, short-lived and cumbersome. Victories nonetheless! He’ll remember the times their victories were bigger, louder, longer-living and heavier set. He’s going to reminisce on the times Voltron’s victories were grand! Obnoxious! When the people bowed to and swept them off the paladins’ feet and the thanks were overwhelming. Victories where cheers were deafening. Joy was priceless. Tears were unstoppable.

Lance deserves to remember the times when victories were led by him front and center. 

 _That was like… a thing_?

You bet your ass they were! 

How could he be so easy to forget the way hoards upon hoards of people swarmed around him, just for a half-second glimpse? Is he really going to let crowds of adoring fans and star-crossed ladies _begging_ for a photo evade his memory so quickly? 

No. He isn’t. He’s not going to forget children; with faces dolorous and faith intangible, find their families again and let their color and hope return. He wouldn’t dare forsake the little liberations- little squads here and there. No more than handfuls of people at a time, but each indispensable to the cause.

He remembers he’s part of that indispensability. 

How about when taking into account all the planets at a time they’ve freed; leading squads and teams and soldiers to inspire more liberation in turn- how quickly it all adds up? How many people and families and planets and systems they’ve helped?

How many people. And families. And planets. And systems Lance has helped.

_Sure… you’ve helped._

And here it goes.

 _But was it really you_?

Yes. Yes it was really him. Lance in the flesh. He saw it with his own two eyes. He’s got the scars and the burns and the nightmares to prove it.

_No. No it wasn’t really you. It wasn’t really you on your own._

What does _that_ mean?

 _It means just what you think it does, pal!_ You _saving those people_? _You being the one to be thanked? You being the one to head the front? Please. When did_ your _head get so big?_

Lance doesn’t know if that’s a trick question or not.

You _have no power. You’re a little boy playing dress up, only authorized to kill._

What?

_It’s not you- it’s the weapon._

But… the weapon is part of him.

_It’s not you. It’s the uniform._

Somebody’s gotta wake up to wear it.

_It’ s not you who they’re cheering for. It’s not you who they’re celebrating. It’s not your power, how could you let yourself think it’s your own might? It’s all Voltron._

He’s a part of Voltron! He’s the Red Paladin!

_You’re only a conduit of velocity. It is your Lion with the power. It is your team with the power. It is not you with the power; you are merely a collateral consumer of their influence._

Lance produces… sometimes. Doesn’t he?

_It is not you with the power._

No?

_It is the Princess with the power._

That… that’s a low blow and his Sad knows it. (Is that why it cuts the deepest?)

_You don’t even have the power to deny it!_

He has the power to say he was having such a nice thing not even a couple minutes ago. It is within Lance’s power to say he’s had enough.

“Enough.” He says, “no more.”

So no more he thinks of it.

 

If only it were that easy. It’s been polluting, dizzying and sludging around in his head for so long- saying “no more” isn’t going to magically make it No More. (He knows a place where he can find magic and make it a reality.) 

Lance can whisper to himself “no more” and “enough” and “be quiet” merry til the day is long but it doesn’t mean there will be no more that he’s had enough or that it will be quiet.

It is not that easy.

It’s easy to think he’s going to lay himself down to sleep and actually. You know. Sleep. Easy squeezy. The application? Well. Sleep has always been a fickle mistress. All night, Lance tosses and turns, fighting with himself in whiplash speeds.

_It’s not you._

Then who else could it be!

_swish_

_You’re weak!_

He can only get stronger.

_swish_

_You’ll never find home!_

_swish_

_You’ll never go home!_

_swish_

_Your love has no worth!_

“That’s IT!”

He can say enough to the tossing and turning, and actually make it manifest. With the force of all his white-hot rage, he tears his blanket away from him. He stomps into his lion slippers, shoves his robe over his shoulders, then marches to his side table. He yanks open the drawer. He rips out his phone.

He calms himself down.

Starfished on the floor, headphones over his ears, he tunes out the world and his mind. He shushes and keeps on lockdown any other pervasive sound that would interrupt his music. There’s not a whole lot of deliberation to his music choice, just. Whatever’s there. He clicks.

Something slow, heavy… sad plays. He skips right over it. The next song on the list is deceptively sweet; with it’s pop melody and upbeat notes, he almost keeps it on until the lyrics cut him lower than a scythe. Seeing as he’s not horticulture, he skips over that too. 

Slowly but surely, he lets individual songs hammer over the pressure of his thoughts. The only thing he does for the better part of an hour is lie. Listen. Skip. He makes no move except the idle arm scratch or song skip. He makes no other sound except the soft breathing along with time. Sometimes he mouths along. Sometimes he closes his eyes to concentrate solely on a feeling he’s always just out of reach to touch. 

For the better part of an hour, songs come and songs go. They eventually bleed and blend together, reducing themselves to arbitrary but agreeable collections of sound. Lance can’t find it within him to skip to anything different. To anything better. Lance lets his predetermined playlist keep on, but somehow, his melancholy still doesn’t feel slow enough. Sure it’s almost been an hour but it’s _only_ _been_ an hour.

He wants the time that’s already gone by to have only been a minute. 

He’s desperate enough to do only so much short of counting the seconds or ticks themselves, if only to make the time go slower. He wants time to go so slow, he wants to agonize over the next minute passing. (When he remembers he felt that way back at the Garrison? he rewords his extremities).

Lance was to feel the moments through his fingers. 

_You want a lot there, friend._

He wants silence.

But then. He listens to a song.

Unapologetic, the melody crashes against his temples. There’s only a few beats of opening, then it dives right in.

“ _The future comes fast when you live in the past-“_

Convicting.

“ _Watch the time slip away down the hourglass._ ”

If only.

His head is a scrambling, holding onto the edge of a canoe slipping and cascading down the white waters of the music. It plays on, each note dripping right into the next.

“ _Cut yourself loose, it’s a choice that you choose. Honey you can be free if you’re willing to lose.”_

It’s _scathing._

Lance sits up. His head is reeling. The more the song plays on, the more he listens. He has to. He has to know how it ends!

Boisterous, excited and unforgivably _happy_ , the song is turning the tides of his mind-noise to a path upstream. This time, he knows he can make it to the bay.

“ _Eyes wide open”_

_“Hearts are broken”_

_“Fighting to believe in something”_

Barely, he lets the song end. The song plays its final note, but Lance has only just begun to register his pounding heart. His thoughts are ratcheted and he can’t possibly lay back down now.

He now knows what he needs to do. It starts with making a little noise himself.

Prepare himself to lose? No problem.

He knows the first tether he needs to sever. It begins in his room.

Back at the Garrison, out in the desert, he knew nothing was really his. His bed wasn’t his. The blankets weren’t his. Hunk was his roommate, but he… isn’t going to go down that thought-line anymore. The furniture wasn’t really his. Neither was the flooring or the hours or the open air around him. The Garrison had a hold over it all.

Lance had more master of property back home. Back with his mamá. In his room he could snuggle into his comforter that either smelled like him or his sister’s hair gel on a given day. ( _Your mattress is comfier and bigger, Lance!_ ) He could always count on the mornings to smother his room with yellow radiance. Oppressive humidity. 

 _His_ room, _his_ space, _his_ things, _his_ home and _his_ family is the first cord he must cut. It might be the thickest of all.

So it might take awhile, what’s the big deal? Not like he’s got the time or anything.

As he stands in the middle of his room he lowers his headphones. It doesn’t give enough finality, so he slides them off his shoulders instead. He stands in the middle of the room, the pounding silence cornering all the mass of his body. 

_The silence isn’t your only problem, there._

He speaks.

“Um. I don’t… I don’t know actually. What… to say.” Humble beginnings. He bows his head and tries again. “I. I’m starting in my room because when I’m in here I feel like it’s never really mine.” He’s grasping for an audience. “It was either mine, and my family’s. They were always sleeping in my bed, or just. Making a general mess of it. Then I got accepted to the garrison and then my room was even less mine. Which was cool. Now I’m here in this castle… ship. Thing. And this room hasn’t been _anyone’s_ for ten thousand years which I guess is even cooler. But hella spooky.”

Why does he need an audience at all? He’s speaking for himself.

He’s speaking from the heart.

“Now I want to let that go. I want to let go of the things that I think are mine. Sure this room, the bed, other things have had my name on it kinda but that’s not the point. Belonging is weird. Ownership is weird. Wouldn’t be really smart to keep holding on to things or try to hoard something that wasn’t mine in the first place, right?” He chuckles. It dwindles and spins out into the stealthy, clogged air.

“Right. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m willing to let go of home. Maybe I belonged to my family, but it’s only going to hurt more trying to hold on. I want to keep hoping that there are people waiting for me back on Earth. I want to keep thinking that they’re missing me, but. It’ll hurt too much.”

So he doesn’t have anyone to speak to, at, or for- but what is he trying to say?

“I guess I’m trying to say goodbye.”

He gasps.

“I’m saying goodbye.”

Ten emotions suddenly lambast the poor boy, shocking his chest and striking his knees.

“I’m saying goodbye. For real. I never got to really say goodbye to my family. My mom. Now I’m going to do that. I’m saying goodbye, and I’ll see them when I see them. If I don’t, well then.”

He’s letting it go.

“That’s that. I miss you a lot, mamá. I can only dream of you waiting for me with tearing eyes and broken hearts for so long. I can only think of everyone else with their looks of surprise… their happiness when I come home before it starts to hurt me, too. Guess I can only hold out so much hope before I needed to tamp it down.”

He’s ready.

“I’m ready to let you go, mamá.”

The next destination after his bedroom doesn’t need a second thought. He knows exactly what- who _-_ he needs to let go of, next.

Sauntering out of his bedroom, the soft paddings under his slippers shuffle against the floor as he moves to the next room.  In all of this robe-clad, slipper-donning, undone glory- he faces Blue.

Her metal immensity is humbling. Her magical intuition is overwhelming. If Lance thought he was bereft trying to address his mother, he was deadass wrong. His mouth stays shut as he flounders for words. He thinks he can save his embarrassment sometimes.

_Yeah, you think._

He does think. He also thinks he can say something to this huge mechanical cat before the night is through. 

Why not start easy?

“Hi… Blue.”

Okay. Maybe too easy. Not an altogether her terrible start. Now to keep going. 

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

I’m _wondering why you’re here._

“So I suppose I should go ahead and tell you.” Good. Good. “You could say I was recently inspired. Or, maybe you can’t say. Cause you’re. You know. Not able to really talk. At all.” Not so good. “But we can still communicate! Which is crazy! I mean, I’m a human from I don’t even want to know how far away, and I speak an entirely different language. Somehow, someway, I found my way to you and there you were and you lowered your barrier for me and that was wild and we had some cool times together, didn’t we.” More good. He’s liking where this is going.

 _Does Blue_?

“We did have some pretty good times. Really good. I miss flying with you.” 

He can feel a tiny ember, red and creaking in a fire; just the coldest flicker of her commiseration being shared with him. It’s enough.

“I miss flying with you.”

He wants to stoke the fire.

“I miss flying with you. I miss being your paladin.”

Only to dowse it out.

“But I’m here to say goodbye.” He approaches her closer. He wants to lay a shaking hand on her cool paw but he keeps it to himself. No need to make a bonfire where a candle is enough. “I’m here to say goodbye, and to officially let you so. See, something that not a lot of people know is that I hate finality. _Hate_ it. That’s why I can’t ever,” he laughs. “Ever have Keith have the last word. It’s why I hate picking up conversations where I left them; I want to finish them the first time around. That’s why I hated when you shut me out.”

In the back of his mind, a half-second montage plays out where Blue speaks to him. In a heavy metallic voice she cries, “No, Lance! I didn’t want to shut you out! It’s just the way things had to be.” And Lance would reply, “It’s okay, Blue. I understand what has to be has to be. I respect Black, and I’ve moved on. It’s okay.”

Blue gives no validation. She expresses no sorrow. She doesn’t cry out. Her lack of response isn’t condemning or shunning. Just lonely. 

Lance presses on.

“You shut me out, but I can’t blame you. I can’t blame Black either. I don’t understand, not completely. But I can’t blame you. I can, however, let you go. See, I was listening to this song and I thought of you kinda. Does that make you my muse? Whatever. Anyway, I just wanted to say that… that I want to move on. I am currently, now, presently in the process of moving on.”

_Get that all out okay?_

“I miss piloting you- no. Wrong. I miss being able to be behind your dash and being chosen to be your paladin,” better! “I miss flying with you right into the heat of battle. I miss when my armor matched my bayard. But that’s not here or anywhere… or whatever. I’m saying that I was just in my room and spent however much time saying my own goodbyes to my family, and somehow, it was easier than it is now. I’m saying I’m letting you go, too. I’m willing to don new colors, find new strengths. I’m willing to be open to Red.”

_Look at you. This is progress. Or should we be saying “finally”?_

“I’m being free! This is my progress! I’m being willing to change and being adaptable which are things that made you choose me to begin with.” Ah. The hysteria was supposed to build sometime. “And even though this change is one of the oddest things in the universe and I think I now have authority over universe proceedings; I’ll be chill. I’m being cool.” 

He’s being chill. He’s being cool.

“I miss you, but I’m not going to keep looking back.”

He’s letting go of Blue, too.

The little ember coughs out its final breath as Lance looks in Blue’s eyes one last time. He’s no longer going to breach second glances while out on missions; the time thing is ever present. He can’t flick his eyes down to Allura’s hand in ambivalent emotion. He has his own bayard.

He’s letting that be that.

Lance walks out of her hangar. When he reaches the lounge room, he lets himself… stand there for a hot second. Looks ahead. Looks around the room.

_Seriously? You can’t have already run out of things to boo-hoo wahh wahh at._

Wrong. He isn’t boo-hooing or wahh-ing at anything.

Right. There is one more person he needs to say his goodbyes to.

(He really needs to stop calling them goodbyes. That’s not what they are, that’s not what this is. It’s a cord-cutting. A cage opening. A freeing of things. Goodbye or farewell means that he’s unlikely to return. A freeing means he may go, the other party may go, but the parting isn’t _devastating_. It’s a… It’s a “I’ll see you when I see you.” It’s not blasé. It’s relaxed. It’s natural.)

It’s not for one person next, but for one people.

He pads his way to the bridge. 

His steps echo in a way that’s fuller, spookier than when he was walking out of his room. Definitely more loaded than when he was walking out of the hangar. The echoes are resounding more. The floor he swears is _pulsing_ beneath him. When he clears his throat, the echoes don’t stop. He takes a step back. Regroups.

_It’s now or never, then._

Now or never. 

Just one last cord. 

The audience in his room was he, himself and himself. The audience in the hangar was decidedly and exclusively the Blue lion. No feedback was given, naturally, but sometimes talking at has its own properties of health catharsis. Breathing in and out, quelling his pulse back down his esophagus, his audience in the bridge is bigger than ever. In the bridge, he’s talking to the ghosts in the walls. He’s talking to the dust bunnies crammed in the corners. He’s talking to the droning hum; the closest he’s going to get to whistling trees. He’s talking to his Sad. 

Every word to leave his lips is a sharp scissor-snip.

“Hey guys.”

_No one can hear you._

“It’s looking like I saved you for last, but _last but not least_ is a thing. Last time I checked. Right. Moving on.”

_That is, if you’re even still planning to get any sleep tonight?_

“It’s not really important the order I went in. Not particularly. I just reached you guys last.”

Is he talking to the ghosts, the bunnies, or the paladins themselves?

“I want to start by saying I’m sorry.”

It’s still a tight toss up.

“I know I ask a lot of you guys. I ask you to listen to me in my whining. To take care of me at my worst.” He laughs choppily. On a down beat. “I’m at my worst a lot of the time though, so that statement’s a little redundant, isn’t it. I ask you to help me through all of my crisises, through all of my drama. You guys pick up my slack. You guys do so much for me and I don’t know how much I’m actually giving back. So for that, I apologize.”

The dust bunnies haven’t been doing squat for him, so he must not be talking at them.

“I didn’t want this thing to be a whole apology soliloquy or monologue or whatever.” He sighs out from his diaphragm. “It’s just a little hard not to remember all your failures and shortcomings and stuff when they’re so loud in your head. When they literally affect the universe. I’ve… I’ve been trying to get better and I hope you’ve been seeing it but it’s _hard_. It’s hard when everything is so loud. It’s hard when everything is going so fast.

“I’ve been trying to do better, but my boxes is where I’m going to be sticking around for a while. I do it to myself, I know I do. I just wish you guys could see farther than that. I’m more than Loverboy and goofball and sharpshooter Lance.”

_You’re Lonely Lance._

“I’m Lonely Lance.”

_Look who’s listening again!_

“I’m done with the lonely, though. I can't change the very being or essence or,” he makes this congested hand gesture that cramps his carpel tunnel, “nature of who I am. I’m Lance. I can be a better Lance, I can be a smoother Lance, but beneath it all? I’m still Lance. I’m sorry that It might not still seem like enough, but that’s… that’s what’s up.”

_Thought you said you weren’t going to make this a soliloquy, monologue, whatever apology thing._

“I’m not here to talk about all that, though.” He walks as he speaks, already completing a full circle around the surface area. He wrings his hands, extrapolating his thoughts. He folds out his arms, lifts his head, speaks to the room at large.

Lance’s friends- mmm. His new _family_ , must be the next to be freed.

“I’m here to say goodbye.”

The words resound and bounce around the wide, clear panels. They whip back over to his face.

_No take-backsies._

“It’s not farewell. It’s not see you later. It’s me being okay with you gone. It’s me accepting that you’d be able to live with me gone. This is me _not throwing myself into a depressive spiral about that notion._ This isn’t me putting me down. This is us keeping a light touch and not a tight grip on… our existence. Our own lives. On each other.”

_You say “us” even without them here?_

Maybe especially without them next to Lance. Frankly speaking though, he’s going to be real: this conversation wouldn’t even be happening if they were next to him.

_Then how is it a conversation?_

Cause the dust bunnies are the best damn listeners he’s ever had. Keep up.

“I know I don’t deserve to be here, and I know I don’t deserve the title ‘paladin’, but. I want to be here as long as you’ll have me.”

What does Lance want?

“I want to stay with you until you really let me go.”

The archaic machinery of the castle groans on. His audience gives no applause, but the cold lifting up from the floor is conclusion enough. The chilled breeze is a flippant hand, telling him to shoo shoo away. 

Guess he’s said enough. Away it is.

His toes snuggle to the tips of his slippers, fitting them better around his feet. His hands wrap his robe belt tighter. His shoulders press down to stretch his neck. He starts to move back to his room.

Yet, he can’t shake some unmistakable feeling like he has unfinished business. Like there’s more left to say. An unneeded statement; there’s always more to say. 

(No, no, no! Words more to say that pertains to his current… freedom fighting.)

Lance has said goodbye to his family; his home. That was his first pitstop. His next destination was with Blue; his better half. It shares a similar space to him saying goodbye to his team. With saying goodbye to Voltron. His rounds should be complete, then. Dues are paid, homage was made. 

What is he missing? 

Walking back from the bridge, his steps grow a touch more speedy. Get a bit more hasty. His meandering slides to a pensive shuffle as he thinks thinks thinks to himself who his last goodbye should be made to.

_This shouldn’t be difficult, either. You know exactly who you have to let go._

He does?

_You’re just not being honest with yourself._

Being honest… 

Oh.

Yeah. He flounces his head back and forth. That’s true enough. 

The other piece of his heart he doesn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole. There’s a reason he doesn’t want to touch it.

_Then how the hell is “conclusion” going to be reached? Weren’t you going to be a better Lance? A smoother Lance?_

Does he _have_ to?

_If your dreams of smooth ever want to see the light of day, then yes. You have to._

Smooth. Lance said that. He knows he said it and he said it out loud, but the more he thinks about it, the more he wants to laugh. 

Smooth?

How is anyone supposed to be “smooth” around Allura? How is Lance expected to keep it together?

If it meant seeing her smiling face shining his way, he’d lick her boots for the rest of his life. (He’s scared of how much he means that.) If it mean that he’d stay by her side, he’d work himself ragged to be the best Red paladin in the history of forever.

It’s a tall order.

Allura's worth it.

_You really think you’re up to it?_

What kind of man would he be if he didn’t even try? If his heart really is gone with Allura’s look, Allura’s touch, Allura’s magic; shouldn’t he try to chase it? Not to say that he wants it back. Allura can keep the damn thing if she wants.

He just _wants_ her to want it. Lance wants the woman to want his heart. He wants her to claw it and hold it and cherish and be terribly, awfully tender with it.

He wants their wants to align. 

He wants to let his final goodbye not be so emotionally constipated.

Around the hallways near the paladins’ rooms, he paces more impatiently. His heartbeat is running where his mouth will not.

_First time ever._

That smart ass comment kicks him right into gear.

“Allura, you’re the last one I need to say goodbye to. Last goodbye for real. I thought I needed to say goodbye to the team and that was going to be it, but it wasn’t. Obviously. That’s why I’m here… talking.”

Yep.

“I was about to say ‘here talking with you’, but you’re. Not here. I’m the only one talking. It would be more like talking at you, so ‘with’ is a dumb thing to say, too.”

_It’s all dumb to say. Just get to the point._

The point will be made. He needs to get it all out, first.

“I guess I was putting off the inevitable. Saving the best for last? Delaying gratification.” Hmm. “Prolonging my suffering?” He thinks Allura would nod there. “Right. Well, whatever it was, I’m here now Allura. And I’m ready to talk.”

He’s ready to listen.

“Here’s what’s up.”

He lets it all out.

“You’re… You’re a lot of things I want to be, Alllura. I’m jealous _a lot_ and I’m needy _a lot_ and I let you guys know it a lot but I can’t keep doing that to you. It’s not fair. I can’t keep draping myself all over you. I can’t keep forcing a place where there isn’t meant to be one. I know I’m mean to be with you-“ wait. “-You all.” There we go. “And I know there’s a place for me here, but I have to find it. I can’t force it, I can’t keep forcing it. I can’t make things go any faster or any slower than they are. Not time. Not hope. Not salvation. Not you or the way I want you to look at me or _see_ me or anything.”

_Do you really believe that?_

“I haven’t been okay with the wait before. To be honest, the whole waiting thing isn’t meshing with me still, but I don’t have a choice. It’s not an option. I can’t afford to be impatient, not in war. Not when we’re fighting for our lives and everyone else’s lives and the _galaxies life,_ it’s all cool!”

It’s dandy.

“I can focus myself behind a view finder just fine, apparently. I can hone in on those Voltron Feelings all day long! And then it comes to you and I… lose it all. I lose it _all_. I can’t find my patience and I’m so _jealous_.”

_We’ve noticed, Lance._

“It’s only ever around you! Like yeah I’m stupid but I’m only ever _this_ stupid when it comes to you! Sure Nyma stole the Blue Lion and whatever, but. _We got her back, though,_ ” he mumbles. “But that was to impress her! It didn’t work which still kinda hurts, but that’s what I needed. I needed to impress her. I don’t need to impress you!”

_Oh?_

“I need _you_!”

_Oh._

He said that out loud, too. Didn’t he. He said it, and he said it _loudly_.

“It’s true, Princess. I need you. I need you to show me how to be a better paladin. I need you to show me how to be the heart of the team. 

(He needs her to show him a sign.)

“I need to let you go.” His pacing finally stops. “I need to let go. I need to say goodbye. There’s so much ahead of you- ahead of all of us as ‘Guardians of the Galaxy’. There’s so much. I can’t be the one to get in the way of all that. What if I hold you back? What if I’m holding on too tightly? It’s always either too much or not enough, isn’t it.” Hmm. “I don’t want to hold on to that responsibility.”

_More wants._

“I need to know that you all will be okay with or without me here. I need to know that I’ll be okay with or without me here. I need to know that… Allura. I need to know that you’ll be the best Blue paladin, more than I could ever hope to be.”

Any last words?

“I need to know that you’ll be safe.”

his wants are still so loud, and so pressing.

He want Allura; her attention, her affection, her support. He wants Allura; her gazes, her touches, her whisper. He wants himself to think he could be brave enough to say all of these things to her someday. 

(He wants Allura to miss him if he goes.)

He wants this goodbye to stop _hurting so much._

“There' so much to say, Allura. There’s so much I have to let go. I think I should have done this backwards- say goodbye to you first then the rest could have been so much easier.”

There’s so much to say, so much in his head but it wouldn’t be right to say it, the timing’s all wrong, he may not say it, _what would she say back_?

There’s a shift in the hum. A hiccup of sorts.

“I don’t know why this is so hard for me.” Moseying, more lax steps Lance resumes. When he looks up again, he realizes he’s already moseyed his way out of the bridge, back down the hallway and near around their rooms. “I don’t know why I can’t finish a single thought.”

Something else is filling the drone.

“I don’t know-“

“Hello? Lance? Is that you?”

No. 

No no no no.

“Lance?”

A few doors down, barely a ghost’s breath away, Allura warps her hands around her arms. Her nightgown swishes around her, brushing the floor and sweeping her presence.

Her voice is screwing over Lance.

The chance to do the creaking, glitching, slow-turn around to face her is robbed. He can only stare. And stare. And stare.

Maybe a blink or two.

She repeats his name one more time. More loudly. Much more warily.

“Yes, princess?”

And his next part was going to be so good!

“I uh… I heard you through the door.” Can she hear his heart through the air? “I thought I caught my name in there a few times, so I wanted to check and see if everything was alright.”

“Uh huh.” He can feel his reddening flush _everywhere_.

“So, Lance.” She raises her brows. “Are you alright?”

Right off the top of his head, Lance is going to go with “no.” The Princess can’t know that, though! 

With every second her eyebrow lifts higher and higher. Her face screws tighter and tighter. Her patience grows thinner and thinner. 

It’s not Lance’s fault he’s too stunned to speak. His free-forming was getting on a role. Now he’s in the Zone. 

Well… he was. 4 seconds ago.

“Sure am, your Highness.” Please stop, Lance. “Everything’s fine here.” Just go back to bed. “All peachy keen.” Just _stop talking._

He whips out his finger guns for good measure. 

_That’s really gonna sell it, dude._

And since when did his Sad get such a ‘ _tude_?

“Are you sure? You were speaking to yourself quite loudly, Lance. Were you having nightmares? Sleepwalking, perhaps?”

“No, no. Nothing of the sort. Just out for a little…” _shrug,_ “evening stroll.”

“It’s quite late, Lance. Even later for an ‘evening stroll.”

Damn! Plan foiled! What now?

“Oh, you know. It’s part of the new beauty regimen. I gotta-“

“Please, Lance. Spare me.” She holds up a hand. Then moves it to the front of her mouth to stifle a yawn. “It’s too late for this. I’m too tired for your plastered smiles. Please tell me what’s wrong in simple, digestible words.”

“I was saying goodbye.”

Oh. Whoops. He didn’t mean for that to come out. Can’t take it back now, can he. 

“Goodbye?” The princess tilts her head. “Why goodbye, what are you saying goodbye to? Has this been inspired by Keith, your running out in the middle of the night for the ‘better of the team?’”

“Take after that mullet? I think not. Please. Princess. Have a little more faith in me.”

Faith might not be had, but peculiarity is. She takes a step closer to him, saying “Then why this racket? Why aren’t you in bed?”

They’re speaking in whispers. Even still, Lance can hear her loud and clear.

“I could ask you the same.”

“I’m not the one talking to myself, unreasonably loud might I add, at unreasonable hours of the day.” Checkmate. “To whom were you saying goodbye?” She lets her own question ruminate for a half-tick before asking, “Were you saying goodbye.”

Lance can’t lie to her _now_. With his signature sigh-groan, he answers “Yes. I was.”

Allura turns her neck away from him, everything about her expression widening. “Oh?”

“But- but not just you!” he sputters. “I was saying goodbye to you and the team, too. I said goodbye to Blue. I said goodbye to my mom. All the important people.”

“Lance, why…” She lowers arms. “Why are you saying goodbye at all?”

She always loves to cut it where it hurts. He uses his words to bandage himself together. “You would say I was. Um. Inspired?”

“Inspired. Inspired to say goodbye.” The lady’s drowsiness adds a kind filter to her incredulity, but it’s translated regardless. “How can that possibly be.”

“I was inspired by a song?”

_You sure about that?_

“A song.”

Yes. Yes he’s sure. “It was a good song. Really got the blood pumping. Forgot I even had it- it’s not the usual stuff I listen to, but-“

“I don’t understand.” Allura says evenly.

“What, the blood-pumping part?” Lance offers. “Cause you know-“

“No, no.” She waves her hand. “I understand that part just fine. I’m confused and _baffled_ by how a song can motivate one to spend-“ she pauses. Pierces his eyes with her own. “Lance. How long have you been up? How long have you been,” she flicks her eyes over the ground. Up around his shins. Lifts them to somewhere around his shoulders. “How long have you been doing this? ‘Saying goodbye?’”

Oh. Snap. He didn’t even think about that. There’s no watch for him to look at and no phone for him to whip out. For all this time, he’s been wandering in timeless, answer-less existence. 

Truthfully he can say, “I have no idea.” It doesn’t placate or comfort the Princess any, so he tries again with “A while? An hour, now? I don’t know, maybe hours?”

“Oh Lance…”

“But it’s cool. It’s chill.” He takes a step closer to her. “I was about to head back to bed once I was done with-“ He nods. Shuts that sentence down. “Yeah.” 

Awkward pause.

He picks it up, carries it over. “I’m done with it, now!” Allura winces at his volume. She sours with his saccharine exuberance. “So I can just go back to bed, all my goodbyes are did, everything’s fine here. Nothing to worry about. Why don’t you go back to bed, too? You don’t have to worry about me.”

“You’re right,” she agrees. “I don’t have to. Yet worry I still am doing.” Briefly, barely, The princess shows the weight she carries over her shoulders. It makes her slouch, but before she can fall, she rightens herself back up. Her face sets once again. “What are you really saying, Lance? What could you have to say goodbye to me, Blue, your family for? What did this song even say?”

“I’m saying I’m letting a few things go. I’m… I’m trying to be free.”

“Be free?” Her voice is raising now. “What did this song of yours _say_?”

 _Show, don’t tell,_ a different voice in his voice suggests. 

Okay. Show, don’t tell. He can be down with that. 

(Will the Princess be?)

Slowly he reaches a hand out towards hers. He curls his fingers sunrise-soft over the slim curve of her wrist. He jerks his head to his room. 

“Follow me?”

She switches her eyes to look at his grasp. They meet his again in veiled questioning. She doesn’t move towards or away which doesn’t give Lance warm fuzzies, until she says

“Lead the way.”

Which gives him warm fuzzies _all_ over. 

Ahem.

To his room they go.

The walk is silent on the short trek down the hall. Charged when his door slides open. Warm and thick when Lance guides her to the middle of the floor where his headphones still remain. He picks them up, slides them over her ears, and waits until she settles in. 

After they get fully cozy on the floor, (as much as they can be on a cold, 10,000+ year old ship), he inhales. He looks to the Princess.

He’s thinking he jumped the gun on a couple things.

He pushes play.

Her head jostles out of surprise. She catches her breath. 

It’s enough to watch Allura’s completely unapologetic concentration as she listens to the song, no doubt parsing the lyrics out one by one.

The song only lifts up and up. Lance knows this from personal experience. But even if he didn’t, he’d know from the way Allura’s eyes widen. The way her shoulders are starting to get into it. The song builds and so does her emoting. She might as well be breathing with the tempo. 

She might as well be mouthing along with the lyrics.

(She might as well be dancing along to the music.)

Her conscious parsing gives way to exclusive listening. 

All too soon the song ends the same way it opened, leaving the lady to blink back into the moment.

Lance doesn’t wan tot break it. He lets her make the first move.

As she twirls a loose fly-away between her fingers, her expression starts to calculate again. 

“This is what inspired you to say goodbye?”

Well… “Yes and no.”

Allura shakes her head. “I can’t imagine how in any reality the answer would be yes. How. _How could that be_? This song is too…” she flops her hands in a circle. “Happy! It’s too happy for goodbye!”

To which Lance can agree. “You’re right.  I’m saying goodbye cause it’s easier to say, but that’s not… all right. I wasn’t trying to say ‘goodbye’ but more… be free.”

“Okay. That does make more sense.” She folds her hands in her lap.

Oh. She’s expecting an elaboration. Alright, then.

“Um. I guess I. I wanted some form of finality? I wanted to be willing to lose my family. They’re so far away and it’s been so long so I don’t think that should be much of a problem.” Not that Allura knows anything about _that_. “I wanted to be willing to lose Blue.”

“Even though I am her paladin now?”

“Yeah,” he sardonically drones. “It’s stupid. It’s dumb, I know.”

“It’s not dumb.” Her smile is so, so tired. Her tone is so, so kind. “I’m simply trying to understand.”

Lance wishes he could explain it to himself. “It’s like I want to open a cage. I don’t want to keep holding onto things so tight that I can never let it go, you know? I don’t want to be all cataclysmic and ‘oh no, there goes another part of my soul’ if I never see my family again. If I never pilot Blue again. If I don’t- mm. Well. You got it.”

Then… then Allura laughs. 

(He’s gonna be honest: he wasn’t expecting that.)

It’s soft, but still bounces around the room. “Chance is what becomes us, Lance. You know this. I’m glad you’re so accepting of it, but you didn’t have to be so formal about it!” She fixes a sleeve. “This is… all I see this being. Loss, change, newness and letting go- this is life at its most tame.”

“I guess I just-“ He punches air in and out of his chest. “I wanted to be… I don’t know. I wanted to make it official?”

Ugh. The more he talks the more he’s confusing himself. He feels like he was less inspired, more… _possessed._ What possessed him to get himself out of his room and walk around the damn castle, talking to himself to hours on end?

The sake of letting go?

“I wanted…”

The notion of self-liberation?

“I wanted…”

The catharsis of tears and ache and _lonely_ to finally stop its cycle?

“I wanted-“

A warm hand reaches up. It lifts near his cheek. 

“I _wanted-_ “

It’s gentle but sure next his watering eyes.

“I wanted the loss to hurt less next time.” He sniffles. “I wanted to let go of what was hurting me.”

She lifts them up, walks them over, and sits them down on the edge of his bed. She waits until after his first tear falls to speak up. 

Lovelier than his mothers’ orchids, gentler than Cuban waves, Allura’s voice drifts over Lance’s choppy breaths.

“Lance. Lance, Lance,” she starts. “Do not think these things are gone from you. Don’t let your fear of pain inflate so much in your mind. You are so brave in battle. You are so kind to strangers. These things cannot be easily lost from you- do not let the _fear_ of losing them take it from you, already. Why do you need to say goodbye? Why do you need to let these things go? Your family; Blue; the paladins? Your family is still here-“ she moves her free hand over his heart. “The paladins, your _new_ family? They are here-“ she points to the floor, the walls, the ceiling above them. 

“What about all the people you’ve helped?”

(That’s what Lance said, too!)

“What about the true memories you’ve already made?”

(Lance knew he was getting on to something.)

“And what about me?” She raises both hands to his face. Her grip is tighter. “I’m in here, too.”

What does Lance do now? 

What does he do with his hands?

What does he do with his voice?

“What about the song?”

“About letting go?” she infers. “I think it means something else. ‘Willing to lose’ doesn’t have to mean saying preemptive goodbyes to those you love. I think it means that you’re willing to lose yourself. As in… self sacrifice.” 

_We would know self-sacrifice around here, plenty. Don’t we._

“Perhaps not in the flavor Keith has shown it,” she amends, “but being giving of time. Of priority. Choosing to help the people instead of yourself. Staying loyal to your morals and goodness instead of staying loyal to strictly people. People are so quick to change, but the truth of goodness? The foundation of hope? These are things that will last forever.”

He thought he had things he wanted to say, but couldn’t. He thought they were overwhelming, too fathomless to be counted.

That was before Allura started wiping his tears. Before she looked him in the eye and gave him truth.

That was before he realized how much else he wanted to but couldn’t say.

( _I want to last forever here.)_

_(I wouldn’t mind spending forever with you by my side.)_

_(I want this hope to last forever.)_

With an easy hand, she guides them both to let the artificial gravity to take over. She lays them down, and together, they talk about loss in every context. Lance talks about his family from now and his family from then while Allura listens where she cannot commiserate. 

They talk about home. Home on the castle. Home on a single, solitary, rotating planet. Home where it meant one thing and it meant another and now it means a different thing entirely. 

Home where Lance has given, bled and leeched his heart.

Home where Allura transfuses to give his heartbeat back.

Sacrifice is becoming no stranger to them, they speak of next. Its familiar face takes many shapes, but radiates the same aura. It’s the giving of time. The giving of sleep. It’s the giving of priority and pride and beauty and life itself; it’s the giving of joy.

It’s letting sad have no place to hide. 

Allura’s making sad have no place to _be._

They speak in blocks of stories. Each story is followed with a question, or a comment, or a laugh- then they move on. With every story, Allura leans in closer. With every question, Lance lowers his voice. 

Somehow, the Princess’ rumpled hair ends up resting over the boy’s shoulder.

Somehow, the boy’s voice simmers to mere whispers floating over to the Princess.

They talk until their whispers give way to silence. Where silence gives way to snores. The late night has been over for a long time now; their rest only coming with the sinfully early morning.

Before sleep takes them, Allura says that “This is the most honest you’ve ever been with me. I wish to see this side of you, more.”

The side of his reddening, weeping eyes? He knows she can still feel their drops on the tips of her fingers.

_No, Lance. Your sad isn’t something anyone wants to see._

His honesty, then. 

If he can have this side of Allura, then he has no qualms with that.

He wonders if she even meant her last whispered words to come out of her mouth.

(He wonders if this late night can turn into the longest day.)

He wonders if she feels like this is how they’re meant to be the same as he does.

His Sad is silent.

The mask has come of.

_It must be true._

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry I couldn't get it done yesterday!! :') Regardless, I hope you enjoyed 
> 
> The song Lance listens to is Dreaming with the Lights on by NeonNoah- a personal favorite of mine. I'll add a hyperlink to it soon^^
> 
> Happy (belated :') :') ) Valentine's day!


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